


The Rite Of Movement

by AetherAria



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Dancing, Domestic, Engagement, Established Relationship, Fluff, Monster Customs, Multi, Poetry, Post-Season/Series 02, Presents, Romantic Fluff, Second Citadel (Penumbra Podcast), i love my ridiculous scalie/scaley trio, this is the MOST self indulgent tooth rotting fluff I've ever ever EVER done please enjoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-12-18 05:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18242981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherAria/pseuds/AetherAria
Summary: Arum has a surprising revelation about his own feelings, and then decides to take matters into his own claws since his humans don't seem to realize what they are denying themselves.The first chapter works as a standalone imo, but the fic will be ongoing until... until I get it to the end, I guess?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello I am new to this fandom as of like a month ago and now I am burdened with a PILE of Penumbra WIPs, please enjoy this first of the bunch. Jason Mellin, Patron Saint of Arum Love, please witness me.
> 
> Title taken from the song Movement by Hozier, because I'm a sucker like that.

Damien sits in the greenhouse, watching through the wide, waxy leaves as Rilla trims back the flora and gathers material for her experiments, singing under his breath and slowly twisting his engagement ring around his finger.

Arum had been working as well, gathering produce to restock the kitchen, but the sight of his knight had distracted him. Now his basket is balanced on the branch beside him as he sits, watching his lover sing to himself from above. The song is gentle and keening, longing, and Arum does not recognize it. It could be an unfamiliar folk song, perhaps, or something that Damien himself has written. It is a ballad, concerning a knight longing to return from a distant, bitter war in order to marry his fiancée, who he has been a long time away from. And as Damien sings, he watches Rilla through the leaves and twists his ring, and twists his ring, and croons softly and longingly and twists the ring again, and Arum feels the words of the song, feels that ring on Damien’s finger like a physical pain.

 _Oh to hold heartache no more_  
_In my beleaguered hands_  
_At last to wed upon the shore_  
_My maiden of the sands_

 _I beg to slay this distance_  
_As deftly as our foes_  
_And hold you as my own at last_  
_My love, my bride, my rose_

Arum only barely keeps himself from leaping from the branch in an instant, from scooping Damien up into his arms to make him stop sounding so utterly bereft. And he only manages to stop himself because- he is looking at Damien exactly as Damien is looking at Rilla. He wants-

Arum wants…

Damien and Amaryllis have been waiting to wed since before they met him, more than a year ago now. Damien used to talk about it, but while they were working to figure out how the three of them fit together, they had put the engagement on a quiet, unstated sort of hold, and eventually- Arum had nearly forgotten. Damien has not forgotten, from the sound of it. From the look in his eye.

Arum looks at Damien, looks at Amaryllis as she smiles and trims leaves and is blissfully unaware of the pining she is the cause of, and Arum feels not for the first time that he wants this, exactly this, forever. He wants to gather the both of his fragile, brilliant humans into his arms and hold them there, safe and secure and loved, for the rest of his life. Arum wants-

Arum has to cling to the branch with all of his claws to keep from falling out of the tree, his heart thudding almost painfully in his chest. Arum wants to marry them. He’s never considered the idea before, never even thought of the concept of marriage in any relation to himself, but-

The emotion he can see on Damien’s face has already made a home in Arum as well. He wants this, wants Damien to call him _husband_ and wants to call Amaryllis his wife and wants the three of them twined together with the stated promise of permanence. He _wants_ that.

He hopes that they still want it too, want it even with Arum insinuating himself into their lives, their love. He slides down the trunk of the tree silently, the basket under an arm, and slips off towards the kitchen before he can do something foolish. Before he can launch himself at his honeysuckle and propose before he even thinks it through. He needs to start planning- he needs to do this correctly, needs to find the right words for his poet and the bravery to say them to his bold, brave herbalist.

He is impatient, now that he realizes what he wants, but he is determined, too, to do this just right. He gives himself a month to plan.

  


  


Arum paces in front of his humans, who sit patiently on the vine-grown chairs of one of the high balconies, waiting for him to stop growling to himself and actually say his piece. Mostly patiently. Damien is beginning to worry that this is something bad, but Rilla is holding his hand and anchoring him to rationality, her thumb stroking his knuckles.

A long moment passes with the distant ambiance of the swamp humming in the air, and eventually Rilla can’t keep her smile hidden anymore. Arum scowls when he notices, and then she laughs outright.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says when Arum’s frill flares in annoyance. “I’m taking this seriously. You said this was serious, so I’m taking it seriously. I promise.”

“ _Good_ , because it _is_ ,” he growls.

“I was just hoping we could get to it sometime soon, is all.”

“The two of you have been betrothed since before you met me,” he snarls, and the turn is so sudden that both of the humans pull their heads back in surprise, “and I suspect that you wish to actually _marry_ sometime before the end of the century.”

“Oh,” Rilla says.

“Ah,” adds Damien, articulate.

“Well? Am I correct?”

The humans glance at each other briefly, and then back to Arum.

“We’ve… talked about that a bit, actually, between the two of us,” Rilla says with a wry look. “And it isn’t that we don’t still want to get married, but…”

“The relationship that Rilla and I shared before we met you is not the same as the relationship we share now,” Damien says, lifting Rilla’s hand to kiss her knuckles. “It is deeper, richer, and more complex because of what we have gone through together, and because we both love you as well. We are three, twined together like a braid, stronger for our complexity.”

“All of that to say,” Rilla says with a smile, “that it wouldn’t feel right for the two of us to get married anymore. It wouldn’t be honest, Damien and I committing only to each other. We wouldn’t- we _won_ _’t_ leave you out, not like that. Not for anything.”

Arum lets his breath out in a rush, and then he is closer in one whip-quick motion, crouched down in front them and looking up. “But you still want to,” he says.

“Not without you,” Rilla says again, but Arum shakes his head.

“Not without me,” he agrees, confusingly. “But- the idea of it- marriage. It still appeals to you?”

“We’re already committed to one another as far as I’m concerned,” Rilla says. “Saints know I’m not going anywhere.”

“Of course it still appeals,” Damien says gently, “but I wouldn’t give up what we have for some legal distinction that would break the spirit of our arrangement so thoroughly.”

Arum stares at his humans in turn and inhales a shaky breath. He lifts a hand to each of them, and they each take it, Rilla with tolerant humor and Damien with pleased surprise. Arum works his jaw furiously for a moment before he says, voice anxious but determined, “I love you. Marry me.”

“Wh… what?” Damien says after a pause.

“Both of you. Marry me.” Arum swallows, his shoulders tightening the longer the humans don’t give an answer. “Please.”

“Arum,” Rilla breathes, squeezing Arum’s hand tight enough that it would hurt a human. “If it were possible, of course-”

“Ignore _possible_ , Amaryllis,” he says with a scowl, his eyes pleading despite the growl in his voice. “Ignore _rules_ , ignore what you think you _can_ do, ignore what you think you are _allowed_. That is _not_ what I am asking. Would you… will you marry me? Do you both want to… to be married, to me? To me, to each other, the three of us together-”

“Yes,” Damien breathes, his eyes shining with wonder at the idea. “Of course I do, oh Saints, to be a husband twice over! But, Arum-”

Arum presses a kiss to Damien’s mouth, quick and fervent, and he is smiling and near-dizzy with it when he looks to Rilla again. “Amaryllis. Is this something you want?”

She bites her lip, keeping a smile at bay, but it bubbles over into laughter before she can stop it. “Of course I do, too, you ridiculous lizard. I didn’t realize that _you_ wanted to get yourself wed so badly, though-”

Arum laughs, bright and wild, and lifts both of his humans off of the bench and clean into the air in a spinning hug while the Keep sings a joyful tone behind them. Arum sets them back down gently, though he keeps them in an embrace as he tries to glower through his immutable grin back at the tower. “The Keep _said_ it wouldn’t snoop,” he grumbles, and Rilla laughs again.

“I imagine it’s pretty excited, Arum,” she teases. “Have any of its kids ever gotten married before?”

The Keep sings a few short tones and Arum tilts his head in consideration. “Two others, apparently. Never heard _those_ stories before,” he says. “Irrelevant right now. Please- I have something to show you in my workshop.”

“Now?” Damien asks, still looking a little dazed as he takes Rilla’s hand again.

“Yes,” Arum says with a grin, taking Rilla’s other hand and gently pulling all three of them into motion, “I have- I want to give you something. Follow, please.”

The Keep opens a portal to the workshop, and they all immediately smell something rich and sweet and familiar.

“Arum, what-”

Arum leaps across the space almost too fast to see, and then he returns just as quickly with a tray, laden with small, simple spheres of shiny, tempered chocolate.

“A new talent, Lord Lizard?” Damien asks with a breath of laughter.

“There are no _customs_ among monsterkind for marriage or engagement, of course, one simply does what one _wants_ to do, and I wanted-” Arum falters for a moment as he remembers to be embarrassed by his own enthusiasm, but then he shakes his head and barrels on, “I wanted to make something you would both enjoy. As an engagement gift. There are- there are a few flavors. The speckled ones here are laced with coffee and that tree nut you both like so much.” His frill flutters open at the way they are both staring at him. He clears his throat and continues, “These ones here are filled with a syrup made with- er, made with honeysuckle nectar and apricot.” The blush takes Damien like a curse, lighting his cheeks in sunset colors, and Arum makes himself continue before that becomes too distracting. “These have a filling that tastes of raspberries, but will not trigger your allergy, Amaryllis - that took some experimenting, to get the flavor just right, but I think I managed a suitable simulacrum in the end. And the last ones are- are just a very, very dark chocolate.” He swallows, waiting for only a half second, and then he sets the tray on the work table nearby and takes a few quick steps back, automatically busying himself by clearing some of the materials off of the other side of the table to distract himself.

“Oh, Arum, wow, this is- that must have been a lot of work,” Rilla says, her hand hovering over the tray, but indecisive about which flavor to start with. Damien settles his hand on her waist and reaches past her for one of the honeysuckle truffles, and his eyes slip closed when he bites into it. Rilla raises an eyebrow at the look on his face, then snatches up one of the false raspberry ones for herself.

“Rilla my love,” Damien says, his voice trembling with emotion, “our fiancé has turned out to be a culinary genius. We _must_ endeavor not to scare him off now.”

Arum’s hands flex at his sides, his face contorting as he tries to decide which part of that to react to. It is difficult not to fixate purely on the word _fiancé_ in relation to himself.

“Arum these taste _exactly_ like raspberries you _have_ to tell me how you did this because I have to put it on every dessert I have for the rest of my life-”

Damien interrupts her with a joyful laugh, and Arum finally relaxes again, creeping closer to his humans. “I’m… relieved they work. My taste buds are not precisely the same as those of a human, and I was not sure how trustworthy your brothers were for the task of testing the experimental flavors.”

“You got Marc and Tal to help?” Rilla asks, around a mouthful of the very dark chocolate. “You’ve been planning this for that long?”

“Well- I couldn’t ask either of you if I wanted it to be a surprise, and those two are always hanging around nearby anyway, might as well have them do something _useful_ for once,” Arum grumbles, but his disdain doesn’t carry any heat. “Are the- ah, the coffee ones, how are they?”

“They are all indescribably lovely, my magnificent, talented Arum, my lily,” Damien practically sings, and then he wraps his arms around the lizard and peppers his neck with kisses. “My _betrothed_ , oh my saints, I feel I must either float away on a cloud or fall into a faint, my loves.”

“You always were more vulnerable to a solid woo-ing than I was,” Rilla teases, though her eyes are bright and fond and she can’t seem to keep her smile buried in a smirk. “Careful, Arum, or you’re going to spoil him entirely.”

“Yes,” Arum says, quite happy with that idea, and then he scoops Damien up into his arms so he can give his fiancé a proper kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation over breakfast. Hashing out the details, as it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay between chapters, I don't have as much of a well-defined plot for this one as I did for Reckoning, so Reckoning took precedence until it was done. Hopefully, this story will just keep going until we hit the actual wedding. Will I be able to actually WRITE said wedding, as an unmarried enby who hasn't been to a wedding since I was maybe eight years old? WE SHALL SEE.

 

It isn’t until the next morning that Rilla remembers to question the technicalities, and Damien starts to worry again in the general sense.

“It’s one thing to be engaged,” Rilla says gently as Damien scoops out scrambled eggs and a vegetable hash onto their plates for breakfast. “There’s no law against engagement, regardless of how many people are involved or whether any of them happen to be monsters. But actually getting _married_ … I don’t know if there’s a priest in the world who would-”

“I told you not to worry about what is possible, Amaryllis,” Arum says, voice warm and content and a little bit smug. “You are thinking too _small_. A human priest? Admittedly, you would be hard pressed to find one amenable to our situation. But your world is larger than just the realm of humanity now, is it not?”

“You are suggesting a- a monster priest?” Damien says, his voice lilting up in disbelief as he sets the skillet back on the counter and comes to join them at the table.

“Probably not a priest as you would recognize. But- there are monsters who oversee such ceremonies.” When they stare at him, doubtful, he scoffs, but he’s still smiling. “What, did you think that committing to each other was a strictly human desire? Not every monster wishes to, and some who desire commitment simply _decide_ that they are married without the pomp and circumstance. But still others have a fondness for attention, ritual, the involvement of friends and rivals and underlings- you understand my meaning.”

“It wouldn’t matter that there are three of us?” Damien asks curiously. “I know that two in union is a very human concept, but-”

“Monster unions are often complex, and often even more complex than three. Sometimes unions are more practical than romantic, sometimes they are mergers of families, sometimes a commitment of monsters will fall out of love and hold an extravagant ceremony of parting. Three instead of two in the human way is an unchallenging thought, honeysuckle. There is only one rule, for monsters.”

“And marrying you off to a couple of humans…” Rilla trails off.

Arum shrugs. “I know one or two powerful monsters who live far from the Citadel, who hold no specific grudge towards humanity, and if I asked them to oversee the ceremony for me… I think I could convince them.” He pauses, clears his throat. “I… may have already opened a correspondence or two… to test the waters.”

“Wow,” Rilla says. “You’ve really been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?”

“… yes,” Arum admits, his tail curling around her ankle gently. “Yes I have.”

“A monster wedding,” Damien murmurs. “Saints, how my life has changed…”

“Does the idea bother you?” Arum asks, tone carefully blank.

“Once upon a time it would have,” he says with a wry smile. “Now I’m merely considering how to go about telling Sir Angelo about this without him accidentally revealing to the entire Citadel the event we are planning.”

“Oh, damn,” Rilla says with a sigh. “Working out the invitations for this is going to be interesting, huh?”

Arum gives a long-suffering sigh. “Marrying a knight, I suppose I shall have to endure a limited number of other knights in attendance,” he grouses. “I shall not be inviting many guests myself. The Keep shall be my most important witness.”

The Keep gives a joyous trill at that, and Arum hides a smile as he takes a bite of his food.

“Hm.” Rilla taps her fork against her plate absently. “Angelo obviously, and Tal and Marc and Dampierre…” she sighs. “We can’t invite Sir Caroline, even if we did _kind_ of reach an understanding. She’ll still walk in and behead the monster that’s supposed to marry us in a heartbeat, no doubt. And I would invite Quanyii, but I have no idea how to get in touch with her, and, well-”

“You think she’ll start asking for my _thumbs_ again, Amaryllis?”

“Oh hush, I was desperate and I never _promised_ anything.” She pauses. “But I really don’t want her to bring it up again, yeah.”

“I am amused that you should wish such a chaotic creature attend our ceremony at all,” Arum says with a laugh.

“She _was_ instrumental in the saving of our Citadel,” Damien muses. “I’m sure if we are determined, we can find a way to contact her.”

“Maybe,” Rilla says. “Either way, I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves a bit. Saints… I can’t believe we’re going to have to plan a _wedding_. I had resigned myself to perpetual engagement, to be honest.”

“It can be done however you want it to be, Amaryllis,” Arum reminds her, trying not to sound _too_ eager. “You need not adhere to any human traditions that you do not find appealing. And the Keep will help make any arrangements with the space that we need, of course.”

“Will we hold the actual ceremony outside?” Rilla asks, tilting her head. “I don’t imagine that you would want any knights and critters running around the inside of the Keep at will, wedding or no.”

“I had-” Arum pauses. “I hadn’t thought of that. I had been imagining-” a new song filling the greenhouse, hopeful and content instead of yearning, this time. Arum clears his throat, continues, “imagining it in the greenhouse. But outside, yes, I suppose that makes more sense-”

“The _greenhouse_ ,” Rilla sighs. “It _is_ the most incredible room in the Keep, I think.”

The Keep sings a soft pleased note at that, and Arum scowls but does not mean it in the least.

“And we _could_ have the Keep seal it off,” Damien suggests, “and only have the guests come in through portals, limit access to the rest of the structure, if only to keep things simple and contained…”

“Yes,” Arum says, fiercely glad that they appear as enthusiastic about the idea as he is. “Yes, I think that will work quite well.”

“How soon were you thinking that we would hold the actual- ceremony?” Rilla asks, watching with amusement as Arum clenches and unclenches his fists, not meeting her eyes.

“I… a month, perhaps?” he suggests, his heart thudding, not sure if that time frame is at all reasonable by human standards. “Small ceremony, shouldn’t require too much planning, just- need to see if our ‘priest’ is willing, make sure those we want will be able to attend- and-” he sighs. “I _am_ due to molt soon, and I had wanted to wait until after _that_ unpleasantness for this.”

“M-molt?” Damien asks, voice tilting up.

“Lizard,” Rilla chimes, and Arum scowls.

“I am a _magical construct_ -”

“Who just so happens to closely resemble a bunch of lizards and shares many biological similarities with them,” Rilla says with a shrug and a grin. “You haven’t noticed, Damien? The Keep’s been trying to keep him all moisturized and cared for, but poor Arum’s scales have been all dry and pale lately.”

“It isn’t exactly a pleasant process,” Arum grouses.

“But I bet you’ll look pretty incredible when it’s over.” She pauses, eying him. “Shiny new husband,” she muses, mostly to watch the way his posture freezes, the way his eyes go wide, and then narrow.

“Shameless tormentor,” he mutters, fondly, leaning so he can nudge an arm against hers. “So. After I molt at least.”

“Let’s wait until we hear from your monster officiant, and when we know they’ll be available we can start inviting the rest of the little group.”

“You are being remarkably quiet, honeysuckle,” Arum says after a moment, and Rilla feigns a wince.

“Oh, don’t get him started,” she teases.

“It’s only-” Damien laughs, possibly at himself. “I’m so _happy_ ,” he says wonderingly. “It’s quite overwhelming, actually. Distracting, even- I keep thinking about-” he glances towards Arum, then gives another pleased little laugh. “I keep half expecting to wake from a dream. This seemed impossible only a day ago, and yet-”

“The impossible is my business, honeysuckle,” Arum says mildly.

“I am overwhelmed by my love for the both of you,” he says, and Rilla smiles and sighs and reaches out to grip his wrist.

“You know we love you too,” she says gently. “No need to get worked up this early in the morning. Besides, you might wanna start saving up your speeches for the wedding itself, don’t you think?”

“I am going to preemptively set a time limit on _any_ speechifying or poetry-reading during the ceremony,” Arum barks quickly.

“At the reception, then,” Rilla concedes with a smile.

“The _what_?”

Rilla blinks, then bursts out laughing. “Okay- I am asking this completely seriously, I’m not laughing _at_ you, I promise. Have you ever actually been to a wedding, Arum?”

“Of-” he snaps his mouth shut, his snout wrinkling in irritation. “I-” he bares his teeth, and then his shoulders sink in defeat. “Of course not. When would I have ever? Who do you think would have invited _me_?”

Damien is making a face like he’s about to declare that _he_ would, of course, he would invite Arum _anywhere_ , for the rest of his life, anywhere and everywhere, all the most beautiful places- but Rilla steers the conversation before the poet can make Arum any more uncomfortable.

“It’s not a big deal, Arum. I just- didn’t want there to be any big surprises for you if you didn’t know what to expect. Usually after the whole actual ceremony, there’s a reception. A party, really. With food, and dancing, presents, and stuff like that. We don’t have to do that if you don’t want to, though.”

“… dancing?” Arum echoes.

“Dancing,” Damien agrees in a dreamy tone, his head tilted and eyes looking somewhere distant.

“I… enjoy…” Arum pauses, frill flaring enough to reveal his embarrassment. “I enjoy dancing,” he says quietly, and then he coughs and sticks his nose in the air just a bit. “Of course, I’m sure your human dancing customs are just like all of your other customs: rigid and ridiculous and if you put one claw out of line someone will mock you for it.”

Damien, affronted, opens his mouth to retort, but Rilla gets there first with a laugh.

“ _Some_ dancing is like that,” she admits. “But obviously if you wouldn’t like that sort of lock-step, organized dancing, we just wouldn’t do it. I mean, _I_ don’t really like that kind of dancing either, so that’s fine with me.”

Damien ducks his head slightly, almost pouting, but then he sighs and admits, “Most of that choreography is designed for… groupings of two, anyway.”

Arum wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. So invariably _dull_. You creatures cannot even _cavort_ without putting restraints on every little step and turn.”

Damien frowns in earnest, now. “You don’t seem to mind terribly the restraint on _my_ every little step and turn when I go through my exercises each morning, when you so often _conveniently_ happen to be nearby and observing.”

“I-” Arum’s eyes dart to the side in a way that fails entirely to be stealthy. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I mean, _I_ do,” Rilla says with a shrug. “Watching Damien stretch is my favorite part of my morning routine, just barely beating out coffee.”

Arum laughs. “Fine, fine. I suppose restraint can have its place.”

“What I’m getting from this is that you _do_ want to dance, though,” Rilla says slyly.

“Dancing, food,” he deflects with a shrug, “none of that sounds… disagreeable.”

“How coy your phrasing,” Damien says, voice lilting. “Who would have suspected that a monster could be so very meek about the simple matter of a dance?”

“ _Meek_ ,” Arum growls. He clearly knows that Damien is goading him, but he narrows his eyes and stands regardless. “I will show you _meek_ , little knight. Keep?”

The Keep sings, then, but not in the usual way, not in its harmonious vagueness, but with rhythm and purpose. A full song, not a phrase of notes. Arum lifts Damien out of his chair with a hand on each side of his waist, and the movement glides easily into a waltzing turn. Arum is substantially taller than Damien, and Damien is less used to following than he is to leading, but he adjusts quickly with a laugh on his breath as Arum guides him through a series of steps that manage to be both unpredictable and elegant at the same time. Monstrous, but controlled. He turns Damien in a tight circle, and his movements to the music are measured and slow compared to his typical blurring speed. Finally he dips the knight back, leaning in close to nip at his jaw as if he just can’t help himself, and when that startles a more enthusiastic laugh out of Damien, Arum pulls him back to stand again, looking equal parts smug and smitten.

“Wedding ceremony planning, version two, entry one,” Rilla chimes into her recorder with a grin, and both of her breathless fiances pause to look at her. “Dancing at the reception is non-negotiable.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation before and after a long day, and a correspondence returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck I still don't know how to write summaries properly. Anyway. It's Tuesday again! Time for me to compulsively post fic. Love y'all <3

After Rilla and Damien come through the portal back into her hut, after the vines recede into the trough-shaped flowerpot full of swamp dirt in the corner, there's a moment when they meet each other’s eyes.

And then they both burst into laughter. Damien presses a hand to his heart as if to keep it still, and Rilla guffaws in a completely undignified way until Damien lifts her in a fierce hug.

“I can’t believe him-”

“He wants to _marry_ us, my love!”

“He was _so nervous_ about it too did you see-”

“His hands upon our own were steady but I saw his other hands clasped together to keep from shaking- oh Rilla our brave beast came to us with his very _heart_ in those beautiful trembling hands! A display of such courage, such vulnerability-”

“Don’t let him hear you call him vulnerable or he’ll sulk for a week,” Rilla says, and as Damien sets her back down she drops her head to rest on his shoulder and she grins and grins and grins. “Oh, Saints…”

“I fear I will be utterly useless today,” Damien admits, smiling shyly. “Our engagement will be dancing in my mind at every moment, and I will be unable to share the source of my joy.”

“You can tell Angelo, at least,” Rilla says, drifting away from him to go get changed. “And honestly, Damien, I really don’t think anyone is gonna be surprised if you’re caught up feeling romantic today. It’s not like it’s never happened before, you know? Just- be a little more vague than normal when you speak your heart.”

Damien considers that, then nods. “I suppose you are right,” he says, and then he glances at his fiancée with just a hint of worry. He works his jaw for a long moment before the words blurt out of him, the irrational worry he needs to hear Rilla dismiss. “You don’t think that he- that Lord Arum is only asking to wed because he thinks it’s what _we_ want, do you?”

“Damien,” Rilla shimmies into a new skirt, steps back over to him and places a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t mean it.” She aims a stern look at him, squeezing his shoulder. “C’mon, Damien, you know him better than that by now.”

“No, no, of course… of course you’re right.” He pauses. “He… of course he wants…”

“Damien. He made us _chocolates_ ,” she says, and the way her lip is curved, the soft, surprised pleasure in her smile, it eases the tension trying to build in Damien’s chest. “If it was just obligation- he wouldn’t have made us a gift, right? He wouldn't have bothered to explain how monsters do marriage, and he _definitely_ wouldn’t have looked that nervous about it. He thought-” she bites her lip, and her expression is so deeply fond that it makes Damien’s heart _sing_. “Dummy thought we might actually say _no_.”

Damien considers that idea for a moment, the idea of _not_ wanting to marry Lord Arum and Rilla, and it is nigh incomprehensible. He shakes his head. “We- we should treat him to a gesture in kind,” Damien says, the thought striking him suddenly and filling him with glee. “An engagement gift in return! He deserves- he deserves to have his sweetness returned to him, as he has treated us to such sweetness himself.”

“Saints you’re adorable,” Rilla breathes, and she kisses him quickly before she continues. “I think that’s a great idea. What did you have in mind?”

Damien furrows his brow. “Er- well, I could compose a-”

Rilla bursts into laughter again before he can finish the thought, and Damien stops and smiles, chagrined. “You’re _always_ composing a something. It’s a very sweet thought, your poetry is always lovely, but maybe something more- out of the box?”

“Out of the box,” he echoes, musing. “Hmmm. I am not sure what sort of token of affection he would _enjoy_ , my Rilla, and gifts were not a part of my original proposal,” he says. “Besides the rings, of course.”

Rilla blinks, and then a sly smile blooms across her face. Damien’s heart swells at the sight, as it always does, and then with sparkling eyes Rilla takes Damien’s hand.

“Okay, so, that gives me an _idea_.”

* * *

 

Arum’s messenger finds him out on the balcony, where he is sunning himself and certainly not pouting that Damien and Amaryllis are not there to warm him personally this afternoon. They still have _some_ appearances to make near the Citadel, of course; Amaryllis with her numerous undeserving patients and Sir Damien- doing whatever Knights do when they aren’t out in the world, slaying monsterkind. It simply seems _unfair_ , that they must be away from him so soon after agreeing to marry him.

He hears a thrumming noise and feels a soft brush at his elbow. The bee (from his hive on the uppermost part of the Keep, modified and ensorceled to be resilient and obedient and the approximate size of a generous loaf of bread) flies into his upper left arm a second time, a fuzzy buzzing whump that pulls him from his near-nap with a snarling yawn. When he looks down, she is nudging insistently against his elbow, and the little scroll case clutched in her claws has a new missive inside. He lifts the creature gently, unbuckles the scroll case, and informs her that she has done an excellent job before he sends her back towards the hive.

When he is alone on the balcony again, the Keep warbles a question and he scowls, staring at the scroll in his claws with a combination of nerves and excitement tossing around in his guts.

“I suppose we shall see,” he says with a sigh, and the Keep responds gently. He scowls. “Of course not. Nothing to fear regardless- if they disapprove of my position then I shall be _glad_ not to have them attend. We don’t need them anyway. I desire to be married and I _shall_ be, regardless of whether I can find a monster to declare it so. I will declare us married myself if need be.”

The Keep trills amusement.

“Call me _cute_ again and just see what happens to you,” he mutters darkly, the scroll nearing danger in his flexing claws. “That herbalist has been a _horrible_ influence on you, you ridiculous plant.”

It sings a distinctly unapologetic apology and Arum scowls again, but the expression slides from his face as soon as he unrolls the parchment. The Keep sings again, impatient and curious, and Arum waves a hand in the air with a hiss as his eyes dart through the correspondence.

“They- Eld Mosshorn wishes to attend,” he says in a stunned whisper. “They wish to come with their interpreter and- and they have agreed to preside over the ceremony.”

A ripple of small pale flowers bloom across the balcony as the Keep sings its joy, and Arum tries to hide his smile in a scoff.

“As I _told_ you, nothing to fear at all. They say they will be near enough to pay a call on us close to the full moon after next, and that the full moon itself will be an auspicious day for the ceremony.”

It’s a little more than a month away, as if Eld Mosshorn knows precisely when Arum desires them to come. As if the universe itself is on Arum’s side.

The Keep sings a strangely stilted question, and Arum pauses his reading to glance up with a furrowed brow.

“What?” He scowls, dismissive. “Why would they ask about _you_?” His eyes dart back to the scroll to read further along, and then he wrinkles his snout in confusion. “They- they _say_ , that they anticipate a lovely reunion with… with the “soul of the swamp itself” upon their arrival.” He pauses, his mouth hanging slightly open. “ _What_.”

The Keep hums in smug pleasure, then warbles a quick, dismissive triplet.

“What-” he starts again, and then he shakes his head. “Irrelevant. What do I care if the two of you ancients have some new gossip to exchange? All that matters is that Mosshorn isn’t going to go inform on me to the Senate or _worse_. They want to- to help.” He pauses, staring down at the parchment again for a long, long moment, his thumb brushing the edge of the page. “They actually want to help me marry Amaryllis and Sir Damien.”

He doesn’t realize the Keep has lifted out a vine to curl gently around his shoulder until he feels its touch, and he snarls automatically though he doesn’t pull away. Another trick the Keep has learned from his humans, this almost-hug. He lifts a clawed hand to grip the vine, reading the words again as it sings to him in softness, in support.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. After a pause, he rolls the parchment back up, sniffing primly and gently untangling himself from the embrace of the Keep. “Well, that’s quite enough of that, I think. Open a way to my room, if you would. I believe I have an invitation or two I should begin to compose.”

* * *

 

When Rilla returns home in the evening, exhausted after dealing with her backlog of housecalls, Damien is waiting for her. He sits on the stump in front of her hut, busily scratching away at a long piece of parchment, weaving together drafts of verse with a distant look on his face. He doesn’t even notice her approaching until she wraps her arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck and making him jolt, a sharp line of ink skittering across the page in response.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, patting his shoulder sympathetically, but he’s grinning wide when he drops his paper and turns in her arms to pull her into a hug.

“At last, my love returns!”

“It’s only been a few hours, Damien,” she says through a laugh. “Did you manage to hold yourself together today?”

“As best as I was able,” Damien replies. “Sir Angelo knew that I was acting oddly, but he said it was a pleasant oddness rather than the alternative and he did not ask many questions.”

“You didn’t tell him yet?” Rilla asks, pulling Damien to his feet and helping him collect the parchment before they head inside.

“I did not have a moment alone with him,” Damien says wryly, and then he sighs as the door shuts behind them. “Besides, I think it will be best to wait until we have a date chosen before I start bandying invitations around.”

Rilla notices the note sitting innocently in front of the flowerpot, and she picks it up to read as Damien busies himself putting away his new poetry drafts. “Well,” she says as she reads, “looks like you don’t have to worry too much about that part of it.” She lifts the note and gestures with it. “Arum must’ve had the Keep send this through sometime today. Apparently his monster priest agreed to go along with this whole monster-human marriage thing.”

Damien presses a hand to his chest, eyes shining. “So quickly!”

“Well, we don’t know how long ago Arum asked, I guess,” she shrugs and looks at the note again. “He says his priest suggested the full moon after next.” She tilts her head as she does the math. “Full moon is… four or five days from now? So just barely over a month. Huh. It’s like this guy read Arum’s mind…”

“A _month_ ,” Damien breathes. “So soon and yet so _far_ , I would be content to wed you both tonight if I could-”

“I know, Damien,” Rilla says fondly, folding the note and tucking it between a few pages of her research. “I know you would.”

His smile fades off just a bit, a worry from the back of his mind rising to the surface. He hesitates, but he can’t help himself, can’t keep himself from asking. “And you, my love?”

She blinks, then looks at him in confusion. “And me, what?”

“Are you… truly content with the speed at which this is progressing, my flower? A month feels like an age for my impatient heart, but I know that you had reservations about rushing through our engagement before…”

Rilla’s brow furrows, just a bit, and then she sighs. “I’m not in as much of a hurry as the two of you apparently are, no,” she admits wryly, “but it’s hard not to get caught up in the excitement. We’ve been through a lot together, you and me, all three of us together- and I want to get married to you, Damien.” She reaches out and cups his cheek, smiling. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to. And I wanna get married to Arum, too, even if I didn’t think that was even an _option_ like two days ago.”

“I was only…” he pauses. “I was never sure why you postponed for so long, during our original engagement. I convinced myself over and over again that you did not want to marry at all, that you were only humoring me.”

“I’m sorry,” Rilla says gently. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“Can I…” he winces, then reaches a hand up to press her own against his cheek again. “May I ask why you were hesitant, before?”

“I didn’t-” Rilla bites her lip, sighs at herself, and drops her hand. When she’s safely stepped back a pace, she lifts her eyes to meet Damien’s again with a self-deprecating smile. “Look, I don’t want to make a big deal out of this or anything, okay?” She pauses, and Damien nods. She worries her lip between her teeth for a moment, and then she says, “If I’m being honest, the biggest reason I kept putting off setting a date was that I didn’t want to get married if my parents weren’t gonna be there to see it.”

“Oh.” Damien’s eyes widen in surprise, his heart giving a painful lurch. “Oh, my Rilla I am-”

“Don’t- don’t get all- _sappy_ about it,” she snaps, waving a hand in the air and scowling to the side. “I just thought- if there was a chance they could come back, maybe if I just waited a little longer maybe they’d be able to be there. Which was _stupid_ , obviously. But now…”

“Now?” Damien asks, hesitant when she pauses for a breath or two longer than is comfortable.

“Well,” she says, voice dull, “it’s not like I could have brought them to a wedding with a _monster_ anyway, right?” She sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t actually- I don’t really want to talk about this. We’re engaged _twice over_ and I’d really rather go back to being excited about that right now.”

Damien makes himself smile, gentle, and pulls Rilla into a hug. “Of course, my love. I am sorry if I pushed you.”

She thwacks him on the shoulder gently, rolling her eyes. “I’m _fine_ , Damien.”

“I know you are. You are substantially more accomplished at _being fine_ than I am, my flower, but you wished to go back to excitement over our engagement and that means that I would like to hold you in my arms.” He does just that for a moment, swaying slightly as if in an understated dance, before he continues. “And, if you will allow, I would very much like to kiss you, now.”

“Damien.” She’s smiling again, the expression Damien most cherishes, most delights in causing. She leans in and the smile melts into a kiss that sings through Damien, that flows through him like a river of liquid light, every time. When she pulls away again she laughs softly against his lips, resting her forehead against his, and the feeling almost overwhelms him.

“I love you so much, Rilla,” he murmurs. “I will be so, _so_ grateful to be your husband.”

“I love you too,” she says, voice soft and eyes closed, and she kisses him again before she leans back, taking his hands in her own. “Now c’mon, we gotta get back to the Keep so you can distract our fiancé long enough for me to figure out his ring size.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few personal invitations, and some uninvited guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all this chapter went a bit off the rails, and I think you'll be able to tell exactly where it happened. That's mostly why it took a full month between the last one and this. Forgive me? <3 thank you, as always, for reading <3

It’s easier, with Tal still writing up his field guide to Arum’s swamp, for Rilla to bully the brothers into stopping by her hut for a visit. Wherever they are, the Keep can provide an easy door, and all Rilla has to do is time it right and give them an expectant, inarguable glare. Plying them with food usually helps, too.

When she has them settled in the front room of her hut, picking eagerly at a plate of laddu and a few extra chocolates Arum claims did not meet his exacting standard for the engagement gift, she gets to the point.

“We’ve set a tentative date for the wedding,” she says, pouring tea with the hint of a smile on her lips.

Tal smiles, head tilting slightly to the side. “That’s great, Rilla! When-”

“ _Finally_. Took you two long enough,” Marc complains through a mouthful, rolling his eyes.

“Actually, it will be us _three_ , Marc,” she corrects. Her voice and face are both entirely calm, but there is a tightness to the way she sets down the kettle.

“Huh,” Talfryn says, puzzled, and then more emphatically, “ _Oh_ , um-”

“Scales actually agreed to marry you?” Marc asks incredulously. “I figured he’d be a hard sell on matrimony considering how aggressively he likes to pretend to not have feelings, like, at _all_.”

“He-” Rilla pauses, biting her lip to keep her smile from getting too wide. “He asked _us_ , actually.”

Tal and Marc exchange a shocked look, more at the shy joy in Rilla’s expression than at the information itself.

“Well- congratulations!” Tal says, finding his voice earlier than his brother.

“Yeah, what _he_ said,” Marc says, still seeming a little dazed.

“Thanks.” Rilla preens, just a little. “The event itself is gonna be fairly small. For obvious reasons.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Marc says with a snort. “What’s it, just us and Angelo?”

Rilla sighs as Talfryn elbows his brother in the ribs. “Plus the Keep, maybe Quanyii if we can reach her, and a couple of Arum’s friends, apparently.”

“Scales has friends?” Marc asks, and Tal elbows him harder, and hisses his name. “Ow! _What_? He just doesn’t seem like the type is all.”

“Why, because he’s a monster?” Rilla attempts to feign outrage, but she’s still too overtly pleased to actually pull it off.

“Mostly just ‘cause you and Sir Damien are the only people he seems to actually, like, _like_. And I mean ‘people’ in the broadest possible sense. I mean, _I_ helped save his weird castle thing and everything,” he says with a pointed gesture that nearly spills his tea, “but I still think I’m only on the barely-tolerable list.”

“He did come around to see us a lot in the last couple weeks, while I was working on the guidebook. He answered _some_ of the questions I had for him,” Talfryn says, pursing his lips in consideration. “And he kept bringing- well,” he nudges one of the chocolates with a finger, expression puzzled, “a lot of these.”

“It was definitely the most aggressively I’ve ever been offered candy,” Marc says. “Actually I wouldn’t even _say_ offered, really-”

“The plain ones were good from the beginning, at least-”

“Yeah but batch three of the raspberry ones stained our mouths purple for like, _four days_.”

“Well, that’s true, but when he switched-”

“Tal. _Marc_.” Rilla leans forward. “Do you want to come to my wedding or not?”

Their eyes collectively widen, and Talfryn nearly chokes on his breath to answer. “Of- of _course_ , Rilla of course we do-”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Marc adds. “I mean, I was gonna come to your wedding when it was just you and _Damien_ , and I like scales a hell of a lot better than I- _ow_ , Tal, my _ribs_.”

Rilla grins as Marc scowls at his brother. “Good. Thank you.” She pauses to tuck a bit of unraveled braid back behind her ear. “It’s gonna be on the next full moon. Even _you_ two can keep track of the phases of the moon, right?”

“Of _course_ we can!” Marc complains, and Rilla gives him a _look_ before she turns to Talfryn instead.

“I won’t let him forget, Rilla,” Talfryn says, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

 

* * *

 

The instant Sir Damien manages to find himself alone with Sir Angelo in the halls of the Citadel, he pulls his friend aside, the words bubbling out of him in excitement.

“Sir Angelo, I have a favor to ask of you, but it will require a degree of… discretion, my friend, and before I ask this favor I must ask for an assurance that you will not draw undue attention our way when I ask. Is this fair?”

Angelo gives Damien a wide-eyed look. “I am the very _picture_ of discretion, Sir Damien! You may rely upon my quietude and discretion and- and another word for the same skill. I am quite adept!”

Damien grips Angelo’s arm, and drags him further down the corridor, jaw clenched in mingled amusement and concern.

“Oh-” Angelo ducks his head, and lowers his voice minimally. “Oh, I was shouting again, wasn’t I?”

“Indeed.”

“Apologies, Sir Damien. I know not my own strength, nor do I know my own volume.”

“I know, Sir Angelo,” Damien smiles. “It’s alright. Here, this one is empty.”

Damien leads Angelo into a small room (or, perhaps, large closet), full of half-destroyed training dummies but empty of other people, and when he closes the door behind them he can’t quite clamp down on his grin.

“You have been positively jolly for days, my friend! What favor could you need when you seem so content already?”

Damien laughs softly, glances at the door one more time, and then quietly says, “You know, of course, that Rilla and I have been engaged for some time now.”

Angelo perks up immediately, grinning wide. “Of course! I have been anticipating eagerly the day when I may act as your second in this most joyous of events!”

Damien winces, furtively looking to the door again, and Angelo shuffles his feet in embarrassment before he repeats his entire point verbatim at approximately half the volume.

“Well,” Damien says, “you won’t have to live in anticipation for much longer, my friend.”

Angelo gasps, clamping his hands over his mouth and muffling as he says, “ _Sir Damien_ -”

“We plan to wed in a month,” he says, his grin irrepressible. “On the full moon. Rilla, and I, and…” the grin finally weakens, his nerves slipping cold fingers between his ribs, “and Lord Arum,” he finishes quietly.

“Oh.” Angelo looks puzzled for a moment, and then his expression opens back into bright, wild joy. “ _Oh_. Oh,” and he’s half shouting again until Damien grips the wrist of his armor in warning and he manages to muffle his voice into a reasonable volume that _trembles_ with desire to raise again. “Oh, Sir Damien!”

“I know it is unusual-” Damien starts, but Angelo shakes his head quickly and enthusiastically and puts his hands down heavily on Damien’s shoulders.

“That is _fantastic_ , Sir Damien! You are so utterly spoiled with love, and I cannot think of any man who deserves it quite so much as you do, my friend!”

Damien feels the tears at the corners of his eyes almost instantly, and he valiantly tries to hold them back. “You- you are unconcerned that-”

“Lord Arum is a friend,” Angelo says, as if he is explaining something quite simple. “And it is clear how deeply he cares for the both of you. An abundance of love is nothing to be concerned with, Sir Damien. It is something to be celebrated!” Angelo is certainly shouting now, and when Damien wipes at his eyes and waves a hand in the air, Angelo winces apologetically and lowers his tone again. “Celebrated… quietly! Of course!”

Damien sniffles, just a little. “Yes. Yes, that is- thank you, Sir Angelo. I never should have worried. And- you will be able to… to keep this event appropriately quiet, won’t you? It is going to be a rather… private affair.”

“I… private.” Angelo frowns. “Yes. Of course! Er- with… with whom, Sir Damien, may I discuss this happy and very private event?”

“Er… Talfryn and- and Marc. Primarily.”

Angelo pauses, and then it is his turn to sniffle. Just a little. “Ah, Sir Damien…” his lip wobbles. “Would that I could shout your joy from the rooftops of this city, my friend.”

“I know, Sir Angelo, I know.” Damien smiles, a little wryly. “No one else… I cannot expect that they would understand. I myself took so long to begin to reconcile with the truth of the matter… as much as it pains me to bottle up my feelings and my love and the truth of my heart, it matters far more to me to keep my flowers safe. It is only a drop of poison, and I will drink it readily to keep far greater evils from their cups.”

Angelo’s smile blooms slow, and he squeezes his hands on Damien’s shoulders again. “That,” he says, “is precisely how a husband should think.”

 

* * *

 

The Keep alerts Arum of the trouble in the late afternoon, and its portal quickly displaces him near the northern edge of his swamp.

He sees the commotion right away. A monster - large soft moth wings camouflaged gray-brown and convincing mossy green, a segmented body, twitching antennae, eyes narrowed in a glare and clawed appendages scrabbling with menace - is caught in one of his traps. A nonlethal one, more lucky this creature - or at least, an incredibly slowly lethal one. He arches an eyebrow, folding his arms behind his back primly.

“It appears you are trespassing on my land,” he says, voice low and mild and shivering with danger. “I could have simply had the Keep eject you to the edge of the swamp, but it informs me that it has already done so. Twice. Perhaps you are confused,” he offers, gesturing, “and so I will give you this advice; the Swamp of Titan’s Blooms is protected, and if you continue to intrude upon it, you will not find those protections so…” he tilts his head at the enormous flytrap, its maw sinking slow enough as to be near imperceptible over the moth, “so _accommodating_. You will pass another way, or you will meet hungrier teeth than these.”

“’M not trying to _pass by_ ,” the creature says in a whispering lilt. “Been trying to talk. Been trying to get your _attention_ , Lord of the Swamp.”

“ _What_.” Arum’s eyes narrow, instantly on alert. “Why? What business could you have with me? I am not offering my _services_ at the moment, I’ve made that _perfectly_ clear.”

The creature flutters slightly, wings cramped by the trap, staring at him intently. “I’ve heard tell that _humans_ have been creeping in on your land, Lord Arum. Have they met with such hungry teeth as you say?”

Arum’s tail curls in slow, dangerous coils behind him, his frill shivering at his neck. “And where… precisely… did you _hear tell_ of that?” he hisses.

“Depends. Is any of it true?”

Arum glares at the creature, and then he unsheathes one of his knives.

A rustle off to his left makes him duck instinctively, stance defensive, but all that stumbles from the undergrowth is a human, hands empty and upturned in a pleading gesture.

“Wait please don’t hurt- don’t hurt her, we’ll leave-”

“Oh you absolute _fool_ ,” the moth mutters, dropping her face into a pair of claws. “Puck-”

Arum stares incredulously as the human winces, hands still held in that defensive, placating stance.

“He was going to _stab_ you-”

“I most certainly was _not_ ,” Arum says. “Who- what-”

“We didn’t know where else to go,” the human - Puck? - says. “And Tetch heard about that human at Helicoid’s court, saying she loved you and-”

Arum blanches, teeth baring in distress, and the human stops, stepping sideways between Arum and the moth.

“Just- don’t hurt her. If you let her go we’ll- we’ll leave. Please.”

Arum is utterly comfortable with Amaryllis and Damien, and by now it is not even unusual to speak casually with Sirs Marc and Talfryn and Angelo, but the tone this human stranger is taking with him now is setting off more alarm bells than Arum knows what to do with.

“You- why would you care if a human claimed to-” he pauses to project a sneer, “to _care_ for me? And why do you care what happens to this creature?” He eyes the human, then glances back to the moth, who has gone still in what appears to be terror. He takes an experimental step forward, closer to the human, and the moth does not disappoint. Her wings stutter wildly, her antennae twitching as she reaches through the bars of the flytrap’s teeth.

“Don’t- don’t hurt them, don’t you _dare_ -”

Arum stops. “You both seem utterly convinced that I am going to hurt you, considering that you _chose_ to come here.”

“So we made a _mistake_ , I _get_ it.” The human reaches out and grips the moth’s claw, their eyes wide and frightened. “If you let her go, we’ll leave. We won’t bother you again. We’ll find somewhere else-”

The moth makes a hissing noise, clutching tighter at the human’s hand. “Stop _talking_ , Puck, he isn’t going to-”

“Release her,” Arum says, making a light gesture with one hand and sheathing his knife with another, and the flytrap begrudgingly creaks open.

The moth gives an uncomfortable burst of clicks as the teeth raise, and Arum realizes belatedly that the trap has pierced one of her wings through. At a cursory glance the damage does not look too terrible, but she will certainly be unable to fly for the time being. Arum rankles slightly, and thinks, _that is not_ my _fault_.

Once she is un-pinned, the moth clambers out as quickly as she is able, and immediately wraps her uninjured wing around the human, glaring protectively over their shoulder at Arum. He raises an eyebrow.

“Well?” he grumbles. “You’re free. Leave.”

“Just- just like that?” the human says, and the moth tightens her grip. “You don’t- you don’t care that we’re-”

“Correct,” Arum says primly. “However that sentence ends, I do not care. _Leave_. Leave my swamp.”

“Don’t question it,” the moth mutters, pulling the human back a step or two.

“No, wait, Tetch, your _wing_ , you won’t be able to-”

“I don’t need to fly to leave this wretched place.”

Arum doesn’t take offense at that; hopefully it means they will leave that much quicker.

“Even so, just let me _treat_ it first, you stubborn thing,” the human says, and then they pull a folded leather pouch from their bag, and Arum watches impatiently and uncomfortably as they unwrap a roll of near translucently thin parchment, unroll it, and tear off an appropriately sized patch. They apply a strange smelling glue around the edges, and delicately press the sheet over the wound to seal it. Arum notices, now that he has the context for it, that the moth’s wings have been mended this way in the past, that there are a number of these patches, with patterns hand-painted to match the coloring of her natural wings.

Arum is reminded, in a vivid and unbidden way, of his own hands, gently tying his torn cape around the wound on Damien’s arm after their second duel. It is an unwelcome feeling. An unpleasant one, in that he despises being caused to feel any kinship with these strangers, with this bold little human and their monster.

“Wonderful,” the moth gripes, and Arum can hear the embarrassed fondness she’s trying to hide, and it irritates him even more.

“Indeed,” he drawls. “Now. If you _don_ _’t_ mind terribly. Keep, a portal to the northern border of the swamp, if you would.”

The portal curls itself out of the damp ground, and the two strangers step back from it automatically, startled by how quickly it appears. The moth looks at Arum warily as if she suspects him of deceit, but she nods after only a moment and pulls the human towards the exit.

“But that’s back the way we _came_. What are we supposed to do after that? We haven’t anywhere else to _go_ , Tetch.” The human furrows their brow, digs in their heels and turns towards Arum with a look of determined worry. “Please. _Please_. Your land is _vast_ , Lord Arum. There must be somewhere we could stay, if only for a short while, where we wouldn’t cause you trouble.”

Arum thinks of Amaryllis, the first time she looked out his balcony at the full scope of what is his; the wonder in her eyes, and the pulse of pride and pleasure it had sent through him. He shakes that feeling, and thinks instead about Sir Talfryn, enthusiastically _cataloging_ the untold, innumerable wonders of life within his swamp. Thinks of Sir Marc, feckless as he traipses clumsily across land he does not respect. He sneers, shaking his head.

“I do not need any more uninvited visitors cavorting around my home and making a mess of things,” he says, voice gone half to snarl, and there is a pause before the two interlopers respond.

“Any…” the human trails off.

“… _more_?” the moth finishes, her antennae twitching in amusement.

Arum snaps his jaw shut, his frill pressing tight against his neck. A thousand times _damn_ Amaryllis’ siblings.

“How many visitors infest your land, lizard Lord?”

“That is decidedly _not_ your concern, _moth_.”

“Her name is Tetch,” the human says gently.

“I could not be compelled to care,” Arum snarls. “The both of you, get through the damned portal or I’ll throw the both of you back in the flytrap with my own hands.”

The moth - Tetch - flares her wings wide, hissing, but the human furrows their brow. “I… I am beginning to think that you won’t, actually.”

Arum glares the fragile little creature down for a long, tense moment, but they completely fail to quail under his gaze. The Keep croons a question through the portal, and Arum hisses a sigh, then drops his eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he mutters. “If you wish to continue wandering the swamp until one of you falls into an errant hole in the murk or another of my _numerous_ traps, you may kill yourselves at your leisure.” He gives an exaggerated bow with bad grace, then turns on his heel. “Keep, take me home.”

The first portal sinks away, and the Keep pulls open a new one in front of Arum.

On the other side of this new portal, however, Amaryllis is half turning, grinning brightly as she catches sight of him.

“Arum! I was just coming… back from…” she trails off as Arum freezes in place. “Uh. Arum?”

Arum stands as still as possible, his hands compulsively at the hilts of his knives though he is unsure when they got there. He sees, just out of the corner of his eye, as the human behind him gives a strange little wave.

“Ah, hello there,” they say, and Arum bristles as he _hears_ the smile in their voice. “I’m Puck, and this is my- well. My monster, Tetch. I believe we’ve already met _yours_.”

 

* * *

 

“Ooooooooooh, we are _going_ to a _wedding_!”

“What?” Caroline frowns automatically, turning from her mountain of paperwork - damn the Queen and damn her  _again_  - towards her witch. “What are you on about?”

Quanyii hugs a rather absurdly large bee against her chest, stroking the fuzz on its head enthusiastically as she waves a sheet of parchment in the air between herself and the knight. “A _wedding_ , sweets! Looks like my _favorite_ little herbalist is _finally_ tying her boy and her beast down!”

“ _What_?” Caroline says again, her frown deepening. “Where- where did you get that?” She asks, gesturing towards the bee, the parchment, the entire mess.

“Never mind that, babe, that’s _boring_. It’s much more exciting to think about how many new and interesting _friends_ we’re going to make at this shindig!”

Caroline snatches the sheet from Quanyii’s hand, and the witch pouts at her as she scans over the scrawling handwriting. “This… this is _not_ addressed to _us_.”

“Oh?” Quanyii tilts her head, the movement too innocent to be anything but false.

“Your name is not _Leith_.” Caroline levels a glare at Quanyii, who musters a wildly flirtatious look in return. When Caroline doesn’t blink she lowers her shoulder slightly so her sleeve slides down an inch or so. When _that_ doesn’t work, she flutters her eyelashes like a pair of panicked butterflies, and when even _that_ doesn’t move Caroline’s expression, she finally breaks into a pout again.

“Ohhhh, you’re no _fun_ today!”

“You stole a wedding invitation from a gigantic _bee_.” Caroline says in a growl.

“Don’t be _mad_ ,” Quanyii says, her voice almost entirely buried in a whine. “They _wanted_ to invite me. I can _feel_ it. They just didn’t know how!”

Caroline raises an eyebrow. “They… _wanted_ to invite you.”

“They just didn’t know where to send the bumbly girl here!”

“Hm.” Caroline pauses, her lip pulled to the side in a thoughtful grimace as she drums her fingers off her biceps, reading the invitation again. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think the wilting little knight would have the fortitude to actually go through with anything this…”

“Bold?”

“Risky,” she finishes, shooting the witch a glance. “If stray witches can go plucking invitations out of the air.”

“Ohhh, don’t be like that. I _told_ you,” she presses a hand dramatically over her heart. “They _want_ me to come, and _that_ _’s_ why I know about it. These lil gals are actually _very_ clever messenger buggies!”

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Caroline says, eyeing the bee warily.

“Yes you _will_.” Quanyii ruffles her sleeves like a preening bird, her nose upturned.

“You _will_ be sending this invitation onward to its _intended_ recipient, now,” Caroline says, a warning in her voice, and Quanyii pouts again, a little harder this time.

“I was _going to_ , you big mean bully. I want to _meet_ the big tough lizard’s little friend, not uninvite him. _Obviously_.” She pauses, biting her lip and looking up at Caroline through her eyelashes. “Sooooooooo… does this mean you’ll come with me?”

Caroline purses her lips, and gives Quanyii a look to let her know that she is _perfectly_ aware of what the witch is doing. “Fine. _Fine_. If only to see the look on Sir Damien’s face, I’ll go.”

Caroline, knowing better, presses her hands over her ears just in time to muffle Quanyii’s piercing, joyful shriek.


End file.
